


All the Way to the Edge of Desire

by openmoments



Category: real madrid
Genre: Birthday Sex, Football, M/M, boys loving boys is how i roll, cristiano wants mesut to believe in wishes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-16
Updated: 2011-10-16
Packaged: 2017-10-24 16:53:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/265751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openmoments/pseuds/openmoments
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> It's Mesut's birthday, but he doesn't believe in birthday wishes. Cristiano tries to change his mind. </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

>  Written for [](http://cagedlight.livejournal.com/profile)[**cagedlight**](http://cagedlight.livejournal.com/) who had a birthday post for Mesut and who wrote birthday!sex fic first and then admitted to crazy shit and writing this with you cheering me on was more than half the fun, chica. Thank you!

_**[Fic - Real Madrid] All the Way to the Edge of Desire Part 1**_  
 **Title:**  All the Way to the Edge of Desire Part 1  
 **Fandom/Pairing:**  Real Madrid - Cristiano Ronaldo/Mesut Özil  
 **Rating:**  R  
 **Author:**[](http://onyxexistance.livejournal.com/profile)[ **onyxexistance**](http://onyxexistance.livejournal.com/)   / [](http://openmoments.livejournal.com/profile)[ **openmoments**](http://openmoments.livejournal.com/)    
 **Spoilers:**  None.  
 **Word Count:** 5, 395  
 **Summary:** It's Mesut's birthday, but he doesn't believe in birthday wishes. Cristiano tries to change his mind.   
 **Disclaimers:** If I owned this team, do you  _think_ I would be writing fic?  
 **Prompt:** Birthday sex.   
 **Author's Notes:**  Written for [](http://cagedlight.livejournal.com/profile)[**cagedlight**](http://cagedlight.livejournal.com/)  who had a birthday post for Mesut and who wrote birthday!sex fic first and then admitted to crazy shit and writing this with you cheering me on was more than half the fun, chica. Thank you!

  


  


  


  


Just because it’s his birthday doesn’t mean he gets all his wishes. He feels the minutes go by and feels that ache of desperation settle in the pit of his stomach, the burn, the need to have a goal to his name on this day of any of them. But then he’s called off and he’s doing everything he can to stay in control and the thrill of winning the game is overshadowed by his own failure.

He does a good job though, smiling and climbing all over Sergio and hugging Sami and having his hair ruffled and everyone makes sure to keep the small notes of pity out of their eyes. But then two sets of eyes collide and there’s that mutual understanding that comes from a mutual loss and all of a sudden there’s this peace that settles on him and he calms down, just a fraction.

He remembers twenty three. Fuck, he feels old now, maybe he’s getting there. Not that his body’s giving up on him or he’s close to being finished. Not even, not even close. But maybe he’s expecting things of himself that can’t be accomplished anymore. Even though he’s a part of a team, one that’s more of a family than anything, he still always would look out for himself. Take the ball all the way, find a way, fight a way, but now....

“Thank you,” Higuain whispers in his ear, and he turns his head, catching the look of ridiculous joy on his face, and he smiles back, honest and true because he knows that feeling, relishes in it, and he knows that he’s the one who gave Higuain that smile.

“What are teammates for?” he asks and his chin’s resting on his shoulder as they’re all wrapped in each other and he catches Mesut’s eye and knows that he’s been found out. You can’t keep a secret from someone who has the same one and he quickly diverts his eyes.

There’s a party planned afterwards, and the combination of both a win and a birthday raises the excitement, the energy, the noise higher and he wants to participate, but can’t. His body’s there and watching everyone and he knows there’s a smile on his face, he can feel the edges of his mouth stretching, the corners of his eyes crinkling, but inside he’s floating above it and couldn’t tell you who’s arms are around him now or who’s yelling in his ear. He can’t.

A cake appears in front of him and his teammates are hollering, telling him to make a wish, but the only one he had for today didn’t come true and the chance has already passed, so instead he fakes thinking and blows them all out instead, hoping someone else made a wish on that breathe.

The boys drink when they’re happy, and tonight they’re really happy. He’s been staring into his orange juice for the last hour and knows it’s better than putting them back like Sergio over there, who’s all of a sudden got a flower in his ridiculous hair and is shaking his hips obscenely to the music and normally he’d be roaring over there with the rest of them but can’t bring himself to feign the energy right now, or the interest, so instead he just downs the rest of his glass and plays with the rim of his cup. He knows it’s more than just about him, and he is glad they won, he’s not as self centered a bastard as people might think, but the need to know that he’s still needed is tugging his emotions towards the ground and all of a sudden he can’t breathe properly so he makes a beeline for the door and at the back of his mind hopes Mesut won’t think he’s bailing.

The burst of cool night air on his face wakes him up, pulls him out of his head a bit and he sits on the bench, head back against the building’s wall, eyes closing as he pulls in lung fulls of night air. He just wants a few minutes. That’s all he’s asking.

After a minute however, he hears the smack of rubber on cement and one eye opens in curiousity, then he shrugs and goes back to just trying to breathe again. He hears it again smack and again smack and he knows that sound so well, lives, breathes, dreams it and it pulls him towards it.

When he sees who it is, he knows he should have known and stands there, watching. There’s a reason why everyone fawns over Mesut, praises him, why they all want him. It’s a natural feeling when someone has talent like he does.

He didn’t mean to leave his own party, but he knows that no one noticed. They’re all drinking away and he knows that, by now, Sergio’s got some ridiculous stunt going on and that everyone’ll be having fun and he feels guilty that he can’t get there. That instead of being elated and happy for the team, he’s upset about himself and the failure to perform like he feels he should be able to.

Of course he knows that people always put more pressure on themselves than they need to, that he played well, maybe not his best, but well, that it’s not who scored the goals, but that they were scored. He knows that. But that doesn’t mean he’s happy about that, that he’s content with that outcome.

Sitting back in the restaurant, watching everyone laughing and joking and touching, celebrating, he’d felt something break inside of him, knowing that, instead of celebrating everything that had happened over the last few years, he was moping over one day, one goal, one thing that didn’t happen. He’d stood up and left, muttering something about the washroom to whoever was listening and had escaped outside.

He had only meant to be out for a bit, to go back, smile and feel like he was actually there. But then he’d spied the football resting in the back of his vehicle and couldn’t resist the temptation. Football, at the very heart of it, was his anchor. It was his base, his heart, his nature.

He keeps telling himself only a few more minutes, that after this he’ll go back inside, that they’ll wonder if he fell into the toilet. But then he focuses on the ball and his breathing and he doesn’t care anymore and it’s, “In a few more minutes.”

The way he moves really is something poets would write about. He’s in awe, watching the fluid movements, the way he uses his space, and just in the parking lot outside of a restaurant. His jacket’s been tossed to the side and his sleeves have been rolled up and the fact that he’s wearing dress shoes and kicking around a beaten up football makes him smile. He knows why the birthday boy’s out here, it’s the same reason he is. He could see it on his face as he was subbed off the field. The absolute disappointment that he wore as he made his way to one of the chairs was hard for him to ignore since it perfectly matched his own. Now he’s watching the look of concentration on his face and wanting to smooth it out, tell him he’s too young to worry so much. Except that it’s not something he believes about himself, so how can he justify saying it to someone else?

His body’s already tired from the game, his muscles are screaming at him to just stop already, there’s sweat trickling down the back of his neck, and dress shoes really aren’t meant for sports. He doesn’t want to, it feels too much like giving up, but he sits down on the sidewalk leading up to the restaurant anyways. The football rolls lazily between his feet before escaping and he’s too tired to care right now. His head drops to his knees and his hands thread into his hair and he knows going to bed and sleeping his disappointment off is the only solution and that things will be better in the morning, but right now he’s going to allow himself this.

He looks up only when the football comes rolling back at him and he sees a pair of dress shoes that could only belong to one person, dress pants, and Cris’s slanted grin. The one he wears when he’s trying to hide something, but doesn’t want anyone to know. He picks up the football, dragging a thumbnail over the stitching in the leather.

“What’re you doing out here?” he asks, finger tracing the hexagons.

Cris kicks his foot, “Looking for you, birthday boy. Shouldn’t you be in, celebrating with everyone else?”

Something tells him that wasn’t the reason, but he’s too tired to say anything and just shrugs non committally. Cris understands though and sits down next to him. There’s no words for this and they sit in silence.

“They’re going to miss you, you know,” Cris tries again, and he smiles. “No they won’t. Or else they’d all be out looking for me, a great pack of half drunken happy boys,” he answers lovingly. Cris laughs because he knows it’s true and neither would be surprised if all of them burst through the doors, calling out either one of their names.

There’s a silence and he shivers a bit, but his jacket’s too far away for him to bother getting right now. “You know you played well today,” Cris tells him in a way that sounds like a question and he chokes out a bitter laugh because is it really that obvious how pouty he’s being?

Cris reads into it properly and continues, “You did. And I know,” here he pauses for a moment and he realizes that this is going to be hard for him to say, he saw his face today, “I know how much it hurts when it’s not you, but you played well. And you’ll work up to playing a full game,” he adds, bumping shoulders.

Mesut shakes his head and Cris looks at him and now that he’s cooled down, the wind’s blowing across the cooled sweat and he really needs his jacket. He looks up at the night sky and then back down to Cris and smiles tiredly, “You still have it, you know,” he says and Cris gets this confused look on his face and then shrugs.   
“Maybe. Sometimes I wonder,” he admits, staring at the cracks in the pavement.

Mesut doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything and they just sit there. They can hear the guys inside laughing and smile at the thought of the antics that some of them must be up to at this point. Finally, Cris looks at him, “Want to go? I’m not ready to back inside, and you look like you’re about to fall asleep out here.”

He chuckles tiredly, looking back at the ball in his hands, “Yeah, yeah I could do with leaving,” he admits, “To be honest,” he adds as they get up, brush off their pants, “I could have just gone home afterwards.”

“Sami wouldn’t let you?”

“Not even. Chose my clothes and shoved me out the door, telling me I had to celebrate and that birthday sex only comes around once a year,” he explains as he picks up his jacket, frowns at the dust on it.

“Is that what you wished for?” Cris asks him as they make their way to Cris’s vehicle, leaving Mesut’s for Sami.

There’s a pause, then, “No. I didn’t make one.”

“Why not?” there are frown lines on Cris’s forehead as he starts the car and they pull out.

Mesut just shrugs, staring out the window. “I’d already lost my chance,” and Cris knows better than to say anything else.

He intends to only drop Mesut off and then go home, but then he gets invited in and why the hell not? Neither of them drink so he’s ready for the water bottle that gets thrown his way and they settle in the living. He stretches out on the couch as Mesut lays on the floor, eagle spread.

They drink in silence and finally he has to ask, because it’s been bothering him, “No wish at all?”

Mesut twists his head to look at him, a confused look on his face and then just shrugs as he brings his water bottle up to his lips. “I’m not a big believer in wishes,” he replies, pauses for a moment, and Cris doesn’t say anything, understands by the way he’s playing with the water bottle there’s more he wants to say. He starts, then stops, starts again and comes up with, “I didn’t get here on wishes, you know?” he asks, though it’s not a question, “I worked for it, and,” here he pauses again, an uncertain look clouding his face and Cris slithers off the couch, lays next to him.

“Yeah?” he whispers, wanting him to finish.

Mesut looks up from the water bottle he’s so intent on, and blows out a sigh, “It feels childish, you know?” and Cris fights the urge to let a laugh out and smiles instead. He knows Mesut understands because he laughs first, flings a hand over his face, “It’s ridiculous, I know.”

Cris props himself up his elbows, poking him in the side, “No, not it’s not,” he tells him, and is rewarded with an unbelieving look and he gets a tiny bit serious, “No, Mesut, it’s not,” he tells him, fingers playing with the untucked part of his shirt.

“You’re one of the best footballers in the world right now,” he starts and pokes him when he hears the snort of contradiction, “Oh shut up, you know it,” he says, “and that’s not a bad thing. But you are, and that tends to make you grow up,” and right now he knows he’s not just talking about his friend.

“But?” Mesut prompts and he smiles because he’s quick and shakes his head, “But, wishing on cakes and falling stars isn’t bad. Baby Cris and I do it all the time,” he says propping his chin on his stacked fists, looking up through his eyelashes.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He watches as Mesut lays back, can see the thoughts swirling around that head of his, and pushes himself up, extends his hand, “C’mon.”

He gets a quirk of eyebrows and jerks his head to the side, repeats, “C’mon,” wiggling his fingers and Mesut’s warm palm slips into his and he’s tugging the birthday boy up to his feet.   
“What do you want?” he’s asked but he just shakes his head, heads to the kitchen.

They celebrated something here last year, he can’t remember what it was, but knows that there’s no way Mesut or Sami would have gotten rid of the candles. He looks in the cupboard above the oven and rummages around for a bit, standing on his tiptoes and finds them at the back of the cupboard. Mesut’s looking at him like he’s nuts, but he just smiles, jogs back to the couch where he left his jacket and finds the lighter he has there.

Mesut’s trailed after him and is leaning against the door way, arms crossed, dress shirt all untucked and this secret smile creeping on his face.  
“What are you doing?” he asks, even though he knows by now and Cris just smiles in response.

“Are you serious?”

“Deadly.”

He rolls his eyes but watches as the lighter’s flicked, the flame flaring into life and Cris holds up one of the candles, lets it catch and steps closer.

“What?” Mesut asks and Cris gives him this look like he’s an idiot (and maybe he is), but knows he needs a bit of prodding.

“Blow it out,” he instructs and Mesut does it, a, ‘Now what?’ look on his face and he can’t help but laugh.

“What?” he asks pitifully and Cris bumps their foreheads together.

“Did you make a wish?” he asks.

There’s a pause and his face closes in on itself a bit and he sighs, “Again,” he instructs and this time he bites his lip for a moment before pursing his lips and blowing it out.

“Did you actually make a wish?” he asks and the younger man gives him a look.

“Why is this so important to you?”

He can’t explain why, but it is, and he just shrugs as he flicks the lighter on, holds the candle up to it, watches as it catches, and sticks it back into Mesut’s face, “Again. Make a wish,” he instructs and he blows out a breathe of frustration.

“This is ridiculous!” Mesut tells him, but bites his lip as he stares at the candle, the wax dripping hot down the side.

Cris shakes his head, “It’s not about the wish itself,” he tells him, and Mesut gives him a tired look. He smiles, “It’s about the ability to give yourself permission to wish for something,” he explains.  
There’s a pause and he can hear Mesut thinking and then, “What do you wish for?”

He didn’t expect that and licks his lips before admitting, “I wish for little things.”

“Like?”

“Like...like that Baby Cris is happy only having me for a parent. Or that the weather will be nice out on our trips, or that we continue to get along. Little things,” he shrugs and winces as the hot wax drips onto his thumb and pointer finger.

“Are you going to make a wish or not?” he asks, eyes jumping to the slowly cooling spot on his fingers.

Mesut gives him a shit eating grin, and bites his lip for a moment, before nodding his head. He closes his eyes, purses his lips and blows.

He looks up and smiles, “I made a wish this time, don’t worry,” and Cris smiles and makes his way to the kitchen, tossing the candles to the side, too tired to care about putting them away. They roll down the counter and bump up against the side of the sink. He moves to start peeling the cooled wax off his fingers, but all of a sudden Mesut’s there, fingers gentle as he takes Cris’s hand in his own, fingernails scraping under the wax, and Cris swallows, looks up from where the bright pink wax is being pulled off and to Mesut, who’s eyes snap up, watch his own, Adam’s apple bobbing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  It's Mesut's birthday, but he doesn't believe in birthday wishes. Cristiano tries to change his mind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  Written for [](http://cagedlight.livejournal.com/profile)[ **cagedlight**](http://cagedlight.livejournal.com/) who had a birthday post for Mesut and who wrote birthday!sex fic first and then admitted to crazy shit and writing this with you cheering me on was more than half the fun, chica. Thank you!

_**[Fic - Real Madrid] All the Way to the Edge of Desire Part 2**_  
 **Title:**  All the Way to the Edge of Desire Part 2  
 **Fandom/Pairing:**  Real Madrid - Cristiano Ronaldo/Mesut Özil  
 **Rating:**  R  
 **Author:**[](http://onyxexistance.livejournal.com/profile)[ **onyxexistance**](http://onyxexistance.livejournal.com/)   / [](http://openmoments.livejournal.com/profile)[ **openmoments**](http://openmoments.livejournal.com/)    
 **Spoilers:**  None.  
 **Word Count:** 5, 395  
 **Summary:** It's Mesut's birthday, but he doesn't believe in birthday wishes. Cristiano tries to change his mind.   
 **Disclaimers:** If I owned this team, do you  _think_ I would be writing fic?  
 **Prompt:** Birthday sex.   
 **Author's Notes:**  Written for [](http://cagedlight.livejournal.com/profile)[ **cagedlight**](http://cagedlight.livejournal.com/)  who had a birthday post for Mesut and who wrote birthday!sex fic first and then admitted to crazy shit and writing this with you cheering me on was more than half the fun, chica. Thank you!

First his thumb and then his pointer finger are rid of wax, and Mesut rubs away the residue and Cris tries so hard to not swallow but then he feels a nail scrape and he can’t help himself and then Mesut’s in his space. He’s crowding him and his hands move from picking off wax to resting on his hips and he can feel the corner of the counter digging into his back, but he ignores it because Mesut’s biting his lips, like he’s uncertain that this is alright, so he reassures him, grabbing the loops of his dress pants, pulls him flush up against him, and that’s all it takes.

Mesut leans forward, presses their hips together, smiles as Cris moans, and then surges forwards, presses their mouths together.

His hands move from his hips, travel up his back, over his shoulders, cup his face and Cris smiles into the kiss.

Mesut feels it, backs off, a leery look on his face, “No? You can, you can,” he swallows, and Cris wants to feel his Adam’s apple bobbing, “You can say no,” he finishes and Cris smiles wider.

“No,” he starts and feels Mesut shutting down, pulls him closer, brings him into his space, “No,” he continues, whispering, “This is good,” and is rewarded with a wave of relief, a smile and he slips his hands under his untucked shirt, feels the warmth of his skin, pulls him closer (if it’s possible at this point) and closes the distance.

Mesut bites his bottom lip, brings his hands up to his face, frames it, and Cris opens his mouth, darts his tongue out, feels his teeth on his lip, growls low.

“Room?” he asks and Mesut nods, and they maneuver through the kitchen, still locked together, Cris leaning in to nip at his neck, jaw, earlobe.

The door clicks closed behind them and Mesut’s the one dragging him to the bed, all eager hands and exploring mouth and his fingers are fumbling with his shirt’s buttons, Cris can feel the cool air brushing his skin as they pop open, one at a time.

He props himself up on his elbows, watches as Mesut finishes with the buttons, crawls back up, leans in and kisses him senseless as he pushes his shirt down, off his shoulders and Cris sits up, let’s him tug it off his wrists, and as soon as he’s free, shoves his hands in the long dark hair, licks his way into Mesut’s mouth.

He can feel his hands work their way between their bodies and grins at his eagerness, which quickly turns into a moan as his hand brushes over his hardening cock, feels Mesut smile against his mouth. He hears his belt buckle click open, feels it sliding through his belt loops, hears it drop on the floor. Two fingers from each hand slide under the waist band of his pants and that’s when he flips them over, Mesut flat on his back, a stunned look on his face, and he captures both his wrists in one hand, keeps them above his head.

“I can’t be the only one getting naked,” he murmurs into his ear, nipping at his earlobe, licking a line down the side of his neck, following it to his Adam’s apple, lightly biting it, smiling as he hears the breathing above him get shallower. He straddles his hips, quickly working on the shirt buttons, lays the shirt open when he’s done and let’s his hand make random patterns on the warm skin that lies underneath. His fingers trail gently, nails lightly scraping, and he soaks up the look of the worked muscle, the tapered waste, the smattering of dark hair that disappears into the boxer short band.

Looking up, he sees Mesut’s dilated eyes, smiles and leans forward, captures his lips, and reaches for the undone shirt. Instead of pulling it off of his wrists like Mesut did with him, he ties the two tails of the shirt around the slats in his headboard, securing his wrists above his head.

He looks down and Mesut’s eyes slide shut, pink tongue darting out between his lips, teeth following shortly, bringing his lip into his mouth. When he’s done, he slides back down, hands catching in his hair, tangling, and Mesut’s tongue darts out, this time he catches it with his mouth, follows it back in with his own tongue, licking every part of it he can, feels Mesut’s teeth scraping against it, gets heady off the taste of his mouth.

He moves lower, leaves a hickey on the left side of his neck, presses a kiss, then bites his left bicep, smooths the mark with his tongue.

His fingers slide down his sides, stop at his waist, and then moves back up and his mouth gets to his nipples as his hands do and he pinches one as he lightly nips the other and Mesut’s straining at his bonds, whimpering, and he looks up, but his eyes are closed, head thrown back, and he smiles, switches sides, feels him buck his hips underneath him, erection pressed up against his leg.

Cris slides down, fingers trailing and tongue darting out, teeth nipping, taking extra time on his hips, which buck up to meet his mouth. He sucks slowly on one hip, and then the other, sits back to admire the dark bruises that are slowly surfacing.

“C’mon Cris,” Mesut sighs, frustration evident as he slowly eases his eyes open, “You’re teasi-,” and the sentence is ended in a moan as Cris palms him through his pants, devilish grin lighting up his face.

“I know.” His grin still firmly in place, he undoes his belt buckle and listens as it snickssnickssnicks out of the belt loops, drops it on the ground, and before it’s even hit the floor he’s got the button popped on his dress pants and the zipper down, as it hits, he lifts Mesut’s hips, which move up automatically for him to slide both pants and boxers down, erection jumping to lay up against his stomach, a moan wrenched from his mouth.

He drags it all down, leans to press kisses and small bites down his legs, finds a spot right below the back of his knee, pries his shoes off, and everything ends up on the floor with a thump as he crawls back up, up, up, covers the length of Mesut with his body, and slides his hands up his arms, winding his fingers with the ones bound above his head.

“God you’re fucking beautiful like this,” he murmurs as he leans in, first nipping at an earlobe and then trailing his tongue down the side of his neck, jaw, chin, bite softly at his chin, feels Mesut bucking his hips and kisses him filthily.

Mesut’s on the edge and he strains up to meet his mouth, whimpers at the contact of teeth and tongue, and how Cris is biting and licking and jerks in response when his hand comes between the two of them, grasps his cock firmly, but doesn’t give up possession of his mouth.

He pulls away from Cris’s teasing mouth enough to spit out, “Beside table,” and hopes Cris will understand, which is does. He sits up, and jerks open the drawer, digs around until he finds the bottle of lube and sits up on his heels, looking at his work.

His fingers pop the top of the lube bottle and he squeezes it liberally over his fingers and nudges his knees apart, sinks into the space between them, pushes first one foot and then the other flat on the bed, and as Mesut looks at him through blown out pupils, sweat dripping down his face, a hungry look taking over his face.

Cris stops for a moment, runs his free hand up and down his left calf, places a kiss on the top of his knee, asks, “You ready?” and doesn’t let his eyes leave Mesut’s after he nods. He pushes one finger in, pauses, waits for him to adjust, Mesut nods and he moves it in farther, watching Mesut’s face, going slowly, trailing kisses up and down his calf, adds a second one.

The noises he makes do things to him. There’s a feeling low in his stomach and he resists the urge to do this hot and wild and now and instead does this for him. Because the look on his face, as he adds a third finger, moves them in and out, crooks them just so, is worth the wait, worth paying attention, worth noting how Mesut reacts. Fuck, how he reacts is worth this, all of it.

“Cris, please, you,” Mesut manages to push out, the words thick on his tongue and he can’t take it anymore. He wants it, he wants it so much it hurts.

He hears it in his voice, knows not to push it, and finishes the job Mesut started earlier. His pants hit the floor, his boxers landing with a soft woosh on top, and he toes off his socks before he crawls back to the moaning figure on the bed, sweat dripping down his forehead, hair plastered to his neck. He crawls back between his knees, grabs the discarded bottle of lube, spills more into his palm and lets his eyes close as his hand wraps his own cock, hard and leaking from everything that’s led up to this.

Mesut makes a sound of protest and he grins as he slowly opens his eyes, crawls up the rest of the way, and with a quick flick of his hands, undoes the shirt that’s held Mesut’s hands over his head the whole time, pulls the rest of the shirt off and pulls him up onto his lap.

He fists one hand into his hair as the other makes its way between them, and he lines himself up with his stretched out hole, all wet and hot and leaking and slides in and watches the look on his face.  
Mesut’s got his hands in his hair, clenching tightly, breathe puffing up against his face, eyes closed, head thrown back, and he leans forward, mouth latching onto his neck as he waits as Mesut adjusts and then rocks him back onto the bed, cock slipping out a bit with the motion and he smiles when he hears the moan sneak out as he pushes it back in.

Legs are wrapping up around his neck, ankles locking together, and he drags his hand over one calf as he rocks back, slowly setting a pace as Mesut’s babbling for him to hurry the fuck up already, he’s been waiting too long.

He can’t get over how beautiful he looks like this, all begging and wanting, stretched open and ready. But he can’t take anymore of the wait and he sets the pace, hand on his calf, head bent down, listening to the sounds coming out of the body beneath him and he pushes, in out, in out, in out and lets out a moan because holy fuck he’s hot and tight and and and...

“Fuck, Cris. Cris. Cris. Fuck ChrisCrisCrisCris,” and his words are running together and it’s the most wonderful thing he’s ever heard and he presses forward, earns a cry in reward, sinks his tongue into that babbling mouth and moves an oiled hand between them, feels him gasp as he grabs the throbbing cock between them and strokes him to the same rhythm as he pounds into him.

“I’m going to come, I’m going to,” and Cris has never been one for much talking in bed but this, this is perfect and he wants to hear it more and he speeds up his pace and is rewarded with more, and the look on Mesut’s face when he does come is fucking beautiful and he leans up and kisses him, teeth grabbing his bottom lip as his body arches up, off the bed, his muscles clenching, and Cris can feel the warmth in the pit of his stomach boiling, feels his own muscles tighten and he speeds up even more, springs moaning as he rocks up against Mesut.

He comes with a shallow cry, catches the look on Mesut’s face, buries his head in his shoulder and feels his hands running up and down his back, his mouth on the side of his neck and he smiles into the sweat dampened shoulder.

His breathing evens out and he slides out and off of Mesut, propping himself on one elbow so he can look at him, eyelids sinking down and he runs his free hand over the side of his face, wondering at him.

Mesut turns his head, slightly, kisses the palm of his hand, smiles up at him, leans forward and they kiss, soft and slow and perfect.

“Happy birthday, Mesut,” Cris whispers against his mouth and he can feel him smile, but he pulls away.

Cris frowns and Mesut smiles innocently, “That better not have been my birthday present,” he teases and Cris smiles and knocks their foreheads together, kisses his nose.  
“And what if it was?” he asks.

Mesut says nothing for a moment, hand making its way through Cris’s hair, thinking and then he tilts his head, smiling, “Then I guess wishes do come true,” and Cris’s heart expands and he buries his head in Mesut’s neck, smelling the lust and sweat and want there.

They fall asleep and sometime during the night Cris opens his eyes enough to pull up the blanket and Mesut curls into him like he can’t breathe without him and Cris wraps his arms around him because he needs an anchor, even when he’s sleeping and through the slats of the blinds he spies a falling star and closes his eyes, a wish on his lips.

  



End file.
